Sonnet 18

When time has robbed you of your angel guise
And blanched the roses in your cherub cheeks,
Your silver mirror friend you will despise
Whose silent council oft you once did seek.
What will you think of youth’s proud failing light
Whose passing marks your sad mortality?
And what then of your beauty’s fickle flight
Whose presence will soon seem but heresy?
What then of youthful dalliance forgone,
And daring dreams now mocked and marred by time?
How will you greet the disappearing dawn,
Now but a saddened memory of your prime?
You mocked life’s bud and now you mock its bloom.
You squander time, nay; time will squander you.